


there's always a choice; you are mine

by kwritten



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Post-Canon, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwritten/pseuds/kwritten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt #224: free will is a myth</p><p>  <i>He would tell her to keep walking, to leave him behind. It never occurred to him that she would stay, it always seemed to hurt him that she felt the same way. As if he had the monopoly on being left behind.</i><br/>He was used to fighting a losing war. She refused to.<br/>Charlie opened the door to the bar, and let hell land where it may.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's always a choice; you are mine

“I’m calling in that favor.”

Charlie didn’t look up, carefully wrapping her knuckles with tape,. “You must have the wrong person.

Duncan glanced around the room and shifted her feet slightly, “You’re Charlie. Charlie Matheson. Don’t fuck with me, kid. I don’t really have the time.”

The girl didn’t look up, picking up more tape from the ground next to her and moving on to the next hand. It had been five years, the girl sitting on the ground at Duncan’s feet was a far cry from the one in her memory. She was leaner, somehow, rougher around the edges, a scar cut down the side of one cheek, and her hair was shorter, darker, nearly black and barely long enough to tuck behind her ear. She had a tattoo on her forearm, it was clumsy and inelegant. In the absence of the Monroe Militia and the fallout after the Patriots collapsed, there were more than a few 20-something leftovers looking to erase old markings with new ones. 

She may not look the part, but Duncan was sure that she was the right girl. 

There was no mistaking those bright eyes, even when they were studiously avoiding her. 

The girl stood up, rolling her shoulders, “Maybe what you need is a drink, lady. I’m not the girl you’re looking for.”

Duncan stepped forward, hissing under her breath, ‘Charlie--?”

She cut her off quickly, “There’s a dive just outside of town, still sells the real shit. Tell them Clayton sent you. Guy behind the bar is an ass, but he knows his liquor.”

Behind her, a booming voice announced the next fight match-up, _Clayton vs. Lindsey_. The crowd erupted in a riot of voices, the bets starting with earnest. 

“Get the fuck out of here before someone else starts seeing ghosts in the crowd, Page,” and then Charlie turned to the crowd with her arms raised over her head in anticipatory triumph. 

Duncan melted back into the night before the fight started. She knew what they’d see, knew that surprise left hook, just like she knew that the man who taught it to the new prize fighter of this up-and-coming hell hole would be waiting for her behind the bar at the end of town. 

 

Charlie drew the fight out, waited until the crowd was a frenzy, until blood dripped down her face from a cut over her eye that was opened anew every night and was no longer worth stitching up between fights, until she was sure that she had their attention. She knocked out Lindsey Flynn with a roundhouse to the chin, catching the other fighter off-guard and causing a frenzy in the crowd. She fell to her knees beside Lindsey, splashing water in her face to wake her up. They smiled at each other while the crowd went wild above their heads, rose up hand-in-hand - though none of the patrons noticed this tidbit. 

Charlie walked away with the money from her win tucked into her bra under her right breast, not that anyone from around here would try to take it from her. In their first few weeks here, there were quite a few rowdy drunks that thought they could get the better of her, a few even cornered her in a dark alley one night. It only took a few broken limbs and one slit throat for them to stop. 

They had thought that the jagged scar on her cheek would dissuade men from getting too attached to her, they had been wrong. She shrugged, it hadn’t hurt that much anyway. She had chopped off her hair first, he’d teased her that with those tits and that ass she’d never pass as a boy. That hadn’t been why she’d cut it off. It wasn’t for protection that time, her hair was for something else… something indefinable… something like a baptism, washing the Matheson off of her soul. When she handed him the blade and told him it was for armor, he’d believed her. 

There was a certain level of belief that he placed in her because there was no one and nothing left. 

Or at least, that’s what she told herself. 

The air was cooler up here, they were further north now than they had in years, skirting the border of Mexico until they were sure that everyone who needed to believe they were dead had lost their doubts before slowly making their way north. It wasn’t a plan so much as boredom bordering on denial with a healthy dose of recklessness. The more they moved, the more she fought, the more they didn’t say, the less likely it was that they’d remember to point fingers and pass blame. Of course they did in the beginning, three months on a farm in the south of Texas, glaring at each other from across the room, never leaving because there was no where to go and no one to run to. Funny thing was, as easy as it had always been for them both to run away, when there was nothing waiting for them to come home to, running away seemed more difficult than staying. 

She still sometimes thought of that one lonely summer in the days before, wandering through the wild world, just as she had always planned to do as a kid, but never really looking for anything and never really finding anything, either. The past three years had been something like that, like that wandering without a goal, fucking without a care, fighting just to fight. 

And after all the doomsday shit and political assassinations and wars, fighting just to enjoy the feel of her fist colliding into the flesh of another warm body was a luxury she never thought she’d covet when she was twelve and collecting her old postcards. Then, there was something in the world worth fighting for, but the dust had settled and left her with only one deeply fragmented person. 

He taught her how to fight dirty and she reminded him to fight fair. She forgave him his past and he forgave her all the times she didn’t, every time she woke up and was surprised to still see him lying beside her, every time she presumed he’d fight against her, every time she didn’t fight when he walked away - as if it was always the last time, even if it never was. He taught her how to fight dirty and she never did, never fought to keep him, never fought him leaving, never fought their differences. He taught her how to fight dirty and so she fought the world, when really he was trying to remind her how to fight him. 

Fighting the one person you have left in the world that knows your real name, has gone to battle at your back, knows all your secrets and all the memories that turn to tears on your pillow, that’s a fight you have to lose. He’s used to fighting a losing war. She refuses to. 

It was something like resigned tolerance or unapologetic apathy that either evolved or always was something just a little bit more on some days and quite a bit less on others. 

Charlie walked briskly in the cold air towards the bar they had called home for the last few months. Finally stopped wandering around, had started to feel settled, she wasn’t surprised that it hadn’t lasted all that long before their ghosts came back to haunt them, before their true names were spoken aloud above a whisper under the sheets of their own bed, before the world crashed back down around their ears. 

She looked up at the moon and hugged her arms tightly over her chest, wondering whether it wasn’t better to just keep walking, grab a horse from one of the farms along the main highway, head north until the cold forced her west, finally feel the sand and ocean between her bare toes - something she had never wanted until he started painting castles in the sky with his husky voice when he thought she was asleep. 

He would tell her to keep walking, to leave him behind. It never occurred to him that she would stay, it always seemed to hurt him that she felt the same way. As if he had the monopoly on being left behind. 

He was used to fighting a losing war. She refused to. 

Charlie opened the door to the bar, and let hell land where it may. 

It wasn’t like they could avoid their pasts forever. 

 

 

She wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome, but having Bass Monroe drag her across the bar by her neck to growl in her ear, _Get the fuck out_ , was on the lower end of Duncan’s expectations. Maybe a quip or a raised eyebrow, definitely his arms folded over his chest as he listened to her silently but didn’t hear a word, maybe a drink for old time’s sake, followed by a not-so-subtle _get the fuck out_. He deflected the knife she wan the midst of bringing up to his neck with a simple and swift move of his arm. “Clear out,” he said over his shoulder to the dusty clientele, allowing his fingers to caress her neck, leaning the length of his hard body against hers. A few of the patrons chuckled as they ducked out the door and she rolled her eyes at him. 

It was a tired play. 

“Clayton sent me here for a drink,” she whispered to him, rocking her hips up to meet his. “She’s still too young for you, even if she’s going by a different name now.”

The emptiness of the bar echoed around them now, but he still prevented her from moving, her arms pinned behind her back, his fingers sliding down her neck again and again, his hips pressing her back into the bar. 

He grunted, “She’s still an idiot, too - apparently. Too old for me to teach her new tricks.”

Before, the first time, the last time, (whatever), he’d denied her teasing guesses, now he took them for granted, expected them, let them roll off his shoulders like it didn’t matter either way - which is how she knew it did. 

Mattered more than probably anything else did. 

“I’m just here for--”

“Fuck off, Duncan,” he pushed himself away from her and turned away to wipe off the counter with a dirty old rag. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Aren’t you?” she smiled at him slowly. She lifted herself up on the bar after he cleaned around her, pretending she was invisible wasn’t going to get her to leave - she’d been playing that game for years now and there she was. “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

“Not particularly.” He moved onto the glasses, rinsing them off and then wiping them down. Probably not the most sanitary way to deal with dirty glasses, but then - who would have ever thought Bass fucking Monroe would be a barkeep on the edge of the Plains Nation, just shy of Canada?

She nodded and swung her legs playfully in front of her like a child. She could wait for him to get down off his high horse and listen. All she had now was time. 

“Don’t you want to know how I found you?” 

He swung around to face her, the idiot hadn’t thought of that before… he was getting soft. It _should_ have been his first thought, he should have packed up whatever gear he had lying around this dump and shot out the back door the second she walked in, instead of watch her make her way through the crowd slowly, taking a lap around the room before ordering a shot of whiskey and dropping a bag of diamonds on the bar. She had made damn sure that people saw her, that she was remembered, that she made the best splashy entrance possible, to put him on edge, to see what he would do. He didn’t react the way he ought to have. 

He stared at her for a long moment and she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. _What the fuck was he waiting for?_

Behind her, the door to the bar opened, the bell twinkling friendly. 

“We’re closed,” Bass said hoarsely, eyes fixed on her, a twitch to his lip saying… _what_?

Duncan tensed as a heavy tread made it’s way towards them, watched his slightly amused, frozen face, his gaze never leaving hers. 

A sigh came from behind her and then someone swung up on the bar next to her, bumping her shoulder gently, “What you two don’t have anything better to do than have a staring contest? Don’t you want to know how my fight went?”

His gaze flickered to the girl, eyes suddenly full of fear and frustration, the muscles in his jaw and shoulder tightening, “Charlie what the fuck?”

Charlie leaned over and grabbed a bottle of moonshine from beneath the bar, “So did you ask her how she found us, or have you just spent this whole time stalling hoping that you get caught?’ Duncan turned her head and smiled at the younger girl, who winked in return. 

“I told you--”

Charlie jumped down from the bar and punched Bass across the face. “You told me to run if something like this happened,” she gestured at Duncan, “and if you’ll recall, at the time I very clearly told you to _fuck off_.”

The punch didn’t even surprise him, he actually looked _amused_ where ten seconds before he had seemed furious. 

“Don’t be such a fucking goddamned martyr Charlie,” he ground out, a spark of admiration flashing in his eyes. 

Poor sucker had actually fallen hard, she suddenly realized. Damn, that was going to make shit complicated. 

Charlie turned back to Duncan, “No one followed you, so how the hell did you find us?”

Duncan sighed, “I was hoping not, but… how can you be sure?”

“Took a few rounds of the block before coming in, nothing is out of place. They could be further out, but from the looks of things you really are a ghost. Or one hell of a spy,” Charlie’s voice was equal parts admiration and suspicion. Bass curled his arm around her waist and pulled her against him, leaning his head against hers and whispering something so low Duncan couldn’t hear. Charlie ignored him, her focus still on Duncan, “How did you find us?”

“I … didn’t. Well I mean,” she shrugged, it was going to sound suspicious as all hell, but she couldn’t help that. “I ended up here by chance a few weeks ago, trying to keep my head down, and I saw you fight.”

Bass swore under his breath and Charlie reached up with one hand to stroke the back of his neck with her long fingers. “We knew there was a chance…” her voice trailed off, she shook her head and took another drink, dropping her hand to dangle loosely at her side. 

“What do you want?” Bass asked, tightening his grip around Charlie’s waist.

Duncan looked down at her hands, “I want… to stay. With you.” She took a deep breath and brought her eyes up to theirs, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Bass shrugged, ‘Keep the bar, we’ll be gone in the morning.”

Charlie chewed on her lip for a minute before stepping forward out of Bass’ arms, “We have to leave now, if there was someone on your trail… it’s too dangerous now. Too many people talking about my fights anyway, it was stupid of me to win so often. Vain.” She paused, considering. “You’ll come with us.”

“The fuck Charlie1” Bass exploded behind her. 

She whipped around and stared him down, “They’re looking for _us_ , the two of us. Matheson and Monroe. If she’s with us - we avoid their radar for a while, be more safe.”

“Safe with _her_?” he shook his head and stormed off down a small hallway to the right of Duncan, a door slammed in the distance. 

Charlie shut her eyes for a minute and took a deep breath before turning back to Duncan, “Be ready in the morning. Either you’re coming with us or he won and you’re on your own.” She headed off in the direction that Bass had left in, the bottle of moonshine still gripped in her hand. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Duncan called after her. 

Charlie stopped for a moment, tipping her head back as if in defeat, before turning back to her. “Didn’t you though?”

“There’s no one else,” she whispered, head bowed.

Charlie laughed, harsh and short, “There’s always a choice.”

 

 

They head directly north first, despite the fact that it’s nearly October and it’s already below freezing at night. Bass says something snarky to Duncan about bundling up and keeps moving. They have to ride together for a while, Duncan taking Charlie’s horse for the first few days until she found one of her own. They woke up in the morning, Charlie’s leg wrapped around his waist, and there were three horses instead of two. 

They never asked or discussed what or who they are running from. It was basic instinct, fight or flee. And without an army, what do they have left but to flee?

One night outside a small compound full of men with guns and women in too-skimpy outfits for the weather, Charlie came back to their camp covered in fresh blood, Bass just a few seconds behind, muttering under his breath about bleeding hearts and pointless causes, Duncan finally realized that they are their own army. She pretended to be asleep and they never discussed it, but in the next town she heard a rumor about a group of terrorists taking out the ringleaders of a human trafficking ring. Charlie couldn’t hide her smile and Bass couldn’t hide his annoyance. 

(These days, they’re running from everyone.)

Each day was shorter and each night was colder until Charlie finally started heading west, not that it would make much of a difference in the dead of winter. They didn’t talk much. There wasn’t much to talk about. They settled for the winter in a sleepy little town covered in snow. Charlie sold herself as a school teacher and Bass spent his days doing menial repairs around town. They found Duncan a position helping the local shopkeeper, whose daughter took off for a warmer climate. Some things never really seemed to change. 

They pulled mattresses into the living room so that only one fire has to be kept lit in the night to prevent them all from freezing. Sometime between Thanksgiving and Valentine’s Day, Charlie crawled into Duncan’s bed, threw a leg around her waist, and never left. After a few days of Bass huffing around the tiny house, he finally crawled in after her, wrapping his arms around their narrow shoulders and grumbling under his breath. They survived the winter, wrapped around each other like hibernating bears. 

They left after the the thaw, in the dead of the night, without saying goodbye. Charlie didn’t cry and Duncan wished she would, wished she’d get angry or be sad or need comfort or something. They didn’t settle again until they reached the coast, getting through the border through some of Bass’ old connections. No one was going to come this far to look for them. 

That was the hope.

Or the dream. 

Or the last thing that they had any faith left in at all. 

That someday they’d be able to stop running. 

Charlie picked a fight in a bar in Seattle. Bass stabbed a militia officer in Portland. Duncan saw an old flame in Stockton. They picked their way south, they never made it to the beach, too busy running to see much else besides their own shadows chasing them to and fro. 

“San Diego,” Bass said, sprawled out in bed, Charlie’s head on his chest and Duncan’s legs twined around his. “That’s the place for us.” 

Charlie leaned over and kissed Duncan on the cheek softly, “Just get me to a beach.”

 

 

Duncan left them a note in Sacramento, _I’m sorry, I had no choice._

She heard rumors that they made it to San Diego, struck a deal and made it into Mexico, kept running further south. She heard rumors that they were caught by President Affleck in Sacramento, just like she was paid for. She heard rumors that they headed north, somehow, fought their way out of Sacramento and took refuge in Canada, heard rumors of a Prime Minister Matheson years later, that she hoped were true but couldn’t believe. She heard rumors that they didn’t make it out alive, fought until there was nothing left to fight for, died in a pool of each other’s blood. 

Duncan left them a note in Sacramento, got passage back to the Plains Nation, took up her life exactly where it started before she became a ghost. 

They didn’t leave any scars, but she felt wounded all the same. 

 

Charlie woke up around three in the morning every night, some kind of inner clock that told her Bass was at his weakest. He didn’t sleep - not really - not until about two o’clock, no matter what their day had been like. She usually just liked to lie there, Bass’ chest pressed against her back and Duncan’s limbs curled around hers. It wasn’t the dream, wasn’t what she imagined when she was a kid and had the whole world lying at her feet, but it was _something_ and it was hers and it was warm. They were staying in a squatty motel somewhere in Sacramento, California was shaping up to be a bit more civilized than the rumor mill in the East would have you believe. It was three in the morning and Duncan’s side of the bed was already starting to chill. 

She sat up, slowly, careful not to wake Bass. He tended to spring into action at the slightest provocation and they couldn’t afford that tonight, not here, not now. 

She creeped to the bathroom and cocked her ear to one side, trying to hear… anything. 

A note on the table by the window said, _I’m sorry. I had no choice._

Charlie crumpled it up in her hand and looked out the window at the night sky. 

_There’s always a choice._ That’s what her father had taught her, what Miles died to prove, what her mother needed to learn again and again. 

She pulled her boots on and looked down at Bass, sleeping soundly. For all she knew the whole world could fall down around their ears any second. There was no time for second-guessing, no time to sit around and think about the alternatives. 

 

 

The terrain on the Northern California coast was all the things she was never told beaches were supposed to be. No white sand, no warm sun, no gentle waves. She climbed over rocks and icy cold wind bit at her cheeks, she gathered seashells when she could, throwing them back into the water each night. 

“I told you I’d show you the beach,” he pulled her into his lap and rubbed his cheek against her shoulder. “Thank you for letting me.”

“We’ll never stop running, will we?” she whispered, tracing the lines on his palm slowly, as if she hadn’t memorized them long ago. 

“We don’t have a choice,” Bass said, holding her close, eyes fixed on the tide. 

“No,” she smiled. “We don’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> please no character-bashing in the comments. this is a story about doing what you think you have to do in order to survive. I very much wanted Charlie and Duncan to represent the two different sides of this prompt - but not in order to demonize Duncan. I love Duncan in this piece and I think most people would make the decision that she makes in the end.


End file.
